Chapter 696 Volkov
In a dimly lit training room, the air was thick with tension and the acrid scent of sweat. Lord Volkov, a man of imposing stature, swung his sword ferociously.
Each stroke cut through the air, leaving a trail of invisible energy in its wake. The room reverberated with the sound of the air splitting, as if echoing the inner the dark thoughts within him. His face was a mask of concentration, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
Just then, the door creaked open, interrupting the rhythm of his solitary practice. A man timidly stepped inside, his eyes downcast, his posture submissive. "F-forgive the intrusion, L-lord Volkov," he said stammering, his voice tinged with fear.
Volkov's sword came to an abrupt halt, hovering in mid-air. He turned his gaze toward the intruder, his eyes like shards of ice. "Speak. What brings you here?"
The man swallowed hard, gathering the courage to deliver his message. "M-my lord, we've lost t-track of Becker inside the f-forest."
As the words "we've lost track of Becker" settled in the air, something ignited within Volkov. It was as if a dormant volcano had erupted, spewing molten fury in all directions. His eyes, once icy, now blazed like twin infernos.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?! YOU LOST HIM?!" Volkov said, his voice a guttural explosion that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.
He hurled his sword toward the wall in one swift, uncontrolled motion. The blade embedded itself into the walls, quivering as if it, too, were afraid of the man who wielded it. The sound of clanging metal reverberated through the room, echoing Volkov's uncontainable rage.
The man who had delivered the news, now pale as a sheet, stood frozen, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixated on Volkov.
A thin sheen of sweat had formed on his brow, betraying the icy dread that gripped him. His lips quivered, struggling to form words that refused to come. Each breath he took was shallow and rapid, like that of a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling in quick succession.
His hands shook uncontrollably, the tremors running down his arms. His feet shuffled nervously, betraying his urge to flee yet rooted to the spot by the sheer intensity of Volkov's fury.
"B-but our scouts believe he is h-headed toward Etrium, sir."
The room was thick with tension for a moment, so palpable it was almost suffocating. Volkov's chest heaved as he breathed, each breath like the bellows of a forge, stoking the fires of his anger. His gaze was locked onto the man with unbridled rage, and his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. "Etrium? Are you certain?"
The man hesitated, sensing the rising storm within Volkov. "W-we're not entirely sure, my lord. B-but given the circumstances, he has l-little choice but to go t-there."
Volkov slammed his sword into its sheath, the sound resonating like a clap of thunder in the confined space. "Little choice? You are underestimating him. That man has been a thorn in my side for far too long. There is no way he 'only' has that choice. No, he likely has a goal to fulfill there."
Volkov's countenance, initially marred by a storm of anger, subtly shifted as a new thought took root in his mind. The muscles in his jaw relaxed, the taut lines of fury softening as a flicker of realization sparked in his eyes. He paused, the surrounding air charged with a sudden, palpable shift in energy.
His brow, previously furrowed in frustration, now arched in intrigue. A sly, almost cunning smile began to creep across his lips, replacing the scowl that had dominated his features moments before.
Then, as if the dam of his restraint had broken, Volkov erupted into full, unrestrained laughter. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH."
His voice echoing maniacally through the room. The laughter was rich with a sense of triumph and revelation, the product of a mind that had not only seen through a dilemma but had also found amusement in its newfound understanding.
The room seemed to darken, as if absorbing Volkov's madness. The man before him trembled, his eyes still averted. "What would you have us do, Lord V-volkov?" He asked.
Volkov's eyes locking onto a distant point as if peering into the very fabric of fate. "Double the reward for his capture. Send word to our contacts in Etrium. I want that man found, and I want it done yesterday."
The trembling man mustered the courage to speak again, his voice quivering like a fragile leaf caught in a gust of wind. "Lord Volkov, Becker is believed to be near the b-borders, close to the mountains. It's unlikely anyone would search for him t-there. The mountain ranges are d-dangerous, and few can navigate them, especially alone."
Volkov's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as if he were a bull about to charge. "THEN TRIPLE IT! MAKE IT TEN TIMES HIGHER! BUT I WANT THAT MAN'S HEAD!"
Volkov's shout was a sonic boom, a cataclysmic force that seemed to shake the room to its core. The words were not just spoken; they were hurled like spears, each syllable a deadly projectile aimed at the core of the matter.
The man before him flinched as if physically struck, his body recoiling from the sheer force of Volkov's rage.
Volkov's eyes remained locked onto the man, his gaze a laser beam of unyielding intent. "Do you understand me?"
The man nodded, his face pale as a sheet, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. "Yes, Lord Volkov. I understand."
"Good," Volkov said, his voice dripping with icy resolve. "Now go. And don't return without good news."
The man nodded, his body almost collapsing with relief. "It shall be done, my lord."
The man bowed so low it was as if he were trying to disappear into the floor. He turned and fled the room, his footsteps a hurried patter that seemed to say, 'I must not fail; I dare not fail.' The door closed behind him with a soft but final click, sealing him out and leaving Volkov alone with the tempest of his thoughts.
Alone again, Volkov raised his sword, resuming his relentless practice. But now, each stroke seemed to carry a new weight, a new urgency.
"Becker," he spat the name out like a curse, his voice tinged with a loathing so profound it seemed to vibrate in the air.
"That man is a thorn in my side, a festering wound that refuses to heal. Does he think he can elude me, hide in the shadows like some coward? He underestimates me. He underestimates the lengths to which I will go to eradicate him."
Volkov clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. "He's slippery, I'll give him that. A snake slithering through the grass, always just out of reach. But even snakes have their hiding holes, and when I find his, I'll smoke him out and crush him under my heel."
"I did all that just for this nation!" He slammed his fist on the table, his eyes blazing with fury. "They promised me Frant, and I fed their damned thaid for it. The parasite…"
With a swift motion, he brandished his sword; the blade slicing through the air, a physical extension of his anger.
"And if Becker reaches Etrium, it's all over. HE KNOWS!" His voice rose to a crescendo as he hurled the sword, its point embedding deeply into the wall.
"He figured it out, didn't he? That I was the one behind the Heniate!" He paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists, the veins in his neck standing out.
"Calling in the band of giants... he was onto me. He stayed out of the fray because he knew. If he had fought, he'd be dead by now!"
His chest heaved with each breath, the air around him thick with the heat of his rage. The room seemed to shrink under the intensity of his wrath, the walls themselves appearing to recoil from his seething presence.
"But now they've abandoned me!" Volkov's fist collided with the wall, his knuckles whitening with the impact.
"All the dirty work I did for them!" His voice was a growl as he struck the wall again, the sound echoing through the room.
"MOTHER FUCKEEEERS!"
As Volkov's roar thundered through the room, his final, devastating blow sent the wall crumbling into ruin. A thick cloud of dust erupted, enveloping his towering form. Particles of debris danced in the air, catching the light as they swirled around him. His face, now a deep crimson from his boiling rage, was etched with veins that stood out like cords, pulsing visibly with every furious beat of his heart.
The dust settled on his skin, creating a gritty, mask-like layer over his features, each grain a testament to his fury.
He inhaled, the air heavy with the scent of pulverized plaster and the faint metallic tang of his own anger. His chest expanded and contracted with each heaving breath, moving like a bellow, stoking a fierce internal fire.
Turning away from the destruction, he shook his hand vigorously, dislodging clumps of dust and debris. The particles cascaded to the ground, some stubbornly clinging to the sweat on his skin.
As they fell, they left behind a stinging sensation, a physical echo of the deep-seated betrayal he felt. His heavy breaths now mixed with the settling dust, creating a tangible, oppressive atmosphere in the once orderly space.
His eyes were dark pits of resolve. "I'll find him. Becker, your time is running out!" His voice was a low, menacing promise, echoing in the dust-filled room.
The room seemed to absorb his words, the walls closing in as if to hold on to the promise of impending death. Volkov felt a dark satisfaction settle over him. It was only a matter of time.
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